Mortality
by Master Crocuta
Summary: It is the birth of Brookhaven Hospital, and with this the plague. Emma has the disease...but her dreams seem to make her worry even more.
1. Realization

Master Crocuta is back! –throws confetti- And this time it's not a one-shot! I hope I'll be able to finish this…'tis a good idea, so far, but I don't have this one all planned out yet…always, any criticism you have is welcomed, though please restrain yourself from leaving messages such as "OMGZZZ YOU SCK BIG TIME!111" Yeah. That doesn't help me much. XD But so far, all the reviewers that have left feedback for other pieces have been wonderful. THANK YOU! –waves tissue- I love you all. Maybe I should stop rambling now. Yeah, that'd be a good idea. Anyways, I feed off of reviews. So feed me, or watch me starve. Horribly. Writhing and foaming. And I'll shut up now.

Oh yeah, disclaimer: I do own Emma, and all of the rest of the characters in this fanfiction as of yet, but I do not own Silent Hill, the town. Konami has that credit!

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_Oh, Momma, I'm scared…'cause you told me it'd be all right, and you told me it'd soon be over…that'd I'd get better and come home…but things have only gotten worse. I'm so frightened, Momma…it started with an innocent night, an innocent thought, but now… there's no turning back…_

Emma Tayton shot up from her hard little bed, damp with sweat and chest heavily panting. The words that had been previously floating nonchalantly around her head moments before were now echoing with an unbearable boom. She reached up to brush a few massed, curly chocolate strands from her clammy face, the touch of dry skin causing her to shiver uncontrollably. Everywhere. Everywhere her skin was terribly arid, and as much as she rubbed, as much as she scrubbed and washed it, the rough texture still remained.

What time was it…? It couldn't have been too early in the morning, for there were no lights outside her cell door. Two, three O'clock perhaps…yes, she assured herself, it was probably around that time of the night—er, day…she was starting to get used to this horrid schedule.

"Horrible," she murmured to herself shakily, holding back the tears that were about to pour. This place was absolutely horrible. The food was unpleasant, the place itself, although new, felt somehow old and ghastly, and the people terrified her…being around diseased souls petrified her, and yet she had still not accepted the fact that…she…_she_, Emma Elizabeth Tayton, was one of them. She was here for a reason, and she was here because Momma didn't want to see her die.

_The tight string clinging to her hair began to come lose, causing a few loose curls to fall out of place. Her vision was blurry with tears of pain, and her stomach tightened as another flow of vomit spilled from her lips and into the backyard bush. Something in her gut began to ripple as Emma heard her mother's call from the back of the house._

"_Emma? You out here, hun?"_

"_Yes, Momma, I…" she stopped herself short with a silent curse. The whole point of being out here was to hide. She'd just broken that purpose. "…I was out here playing, Momma, that's all."_

_Footsteps. Her mother halted in front of her, bending down to feel the girl's forehead. "You don't feel so good…you shouldn't be roughing around outside if you don't feel good, Emma." She helped her daughter to her feet, and led her inside silently. Not a word slipped as Emma nodded obediently, holding back the urge to throw up her body's contents once more._

"_So, how's Thomas Aikerson?" her mother walked back to the rusting pot burning over the fire, eyes focused, as to not stray to her daughter's stressful face. Emma could have sworn that her mother did not even want to look at her anymore._

"_Tommy…? Oh, he's fine. Just fine," Emma murmured back absentmindedly. "Looks at me lots, when we're at school. We don't talk much though. He's a real shy boy."_

"_I see." _

_Silence._

"_Momma?"_

"_Yes, dear?" Her mother's gaze didn't even budge._

"_Why don't we talk about Grace anymore?" There was a long pause. _

"_Because, sweet Emma," her mother's words came out quiet, unstable. "Your little sister is dead. She died from the— "_

"_I know what she died from, Momma," Emma interrupted, somewhat coldly. She quickly apologized and went on. "I know what she died from," she repeated, softer this time. "No one can hide what's going on in the town, as much as they'd like to try…even the school has given us an excuse on how come so many students are missing. Many of the younger ones believe it, but I don't. I know."_

"_Come here. Let me see your face."_

"_I'm not crying, Momma!" Emma almost screeched, but in truth she wanted truly to just sob her eyes out. Her pretty deep blue eyes, which were now only deep in the way that the skin under seemed to sink…she had such sunken eyes that she no longer looked at her reflection, not even in the water she drank. "Tell me…tell me what it's called. What's killing everyone in the town?"_

"_You are always asking for something to drink…" her mother whispered, stirring a large wooden spoon in the pot repetitively. "You never dance around like you used to…your bright eyes are no longer shining…your skin, do you not see your skin? Look how it flakes. You're always sleeping, always trapped in dreams. It's called cholera, my dear…the same disease your sister died from. The same disease that is sweeping the town." A single, glassy tear broke against the dirty floor noiselessly. _

_The young girl's head rocked lightly, and then began to shake right to left on her neck, faster and faster, wilder until it felt as if her head were about to fly off and splatter against the opposite wall. "No!" she screamed, hands clutching at her hair, pulling out thick, soft chunks. "No! No, no, no! You're lying…you're lying to me!" the volume in her voice increased. "Stop lying to me, Momma! Grace wouldn't like that! Daddy wouldn't! I don't wanna die…I don't wanna die like they did!" The images flashed through her mind, the pictures of her father, of her little sister, lungs worn from earsplitting yells, their skin shriveled like prunes, the next day their bodies curled tightly into motionless balls. She didn't want to die like them—she didn't want to die at all._

_Her mother's hands gripped her shoulders. Emma looked up into the older woman's eyes—eyes flooded with sorrow, and eyes that had seen death more than enough times to count. "Emma," she whispered. "Emma Elizabeth, don't raise your voice to me. The town…there's a medical place here now, child, a hospital…they will help you. Brookhaven Hospital, it's called…I'll take you, and I promise, child, you'll get better…you have to get better, so you can come home and take care of me. I won't have no one once you're gone, so baby, don't worry…that disease will go away soon enough."_

She blinked away the sadness that was threatening to moisten her cheeks. Momma, how was she? Thomas…was he still the shy boy he was in school? Had he changed? And did he…did he even care if she had been struck by the disease?

"I shouldn't have drunk from that cup," she coughed out, biting her lip tightly until a drop of blood began to color her chin. That cup—if she could have gone back and made sure to throw away that cup, everything would be different now. Things would be the way they had been. But Grace had drunk from that cup, and dear Emma, unknowing, as a big sister would, took it and sipped some afterwards.

"Such a plague has struck only the weakest of souls," she quoted one of the priests in their town. "Their hearts have not chosen the right path; may merciful Metatron be with them when the pain hits." At times, they took some of the disease-ridden beings to the prison—they were insane, and also cursed by the devil, some had accused and believed. These prisoners claimed to have seen signs…messages that only a demon would give.

Cholera did not cause madness, for that was certain. Many of the patients in the hospital did not have such illusions, or dreams, or prophesies. They could not see the future, and they were nothing too terribly special—just people patiently waiting for a fate they did not ask for.

But Emma…did not speak of such things. The strange dreams she had whenever her eyelids grew heavy made her shiver in panic. Did she talk in her sleep? Did she mumble or grow restless, and if one of the patrollers were to pass by her cell at night, would they think anything of it? All she could do was sit there and wait. Sit there, and wait to be caught…sit there and wait to be cured…or sit there to rot until they buried her a hole in the ground.

"Silent Hill," she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly and feeling the hard corner of the wall against her back. The firm pillow atop her bed gave little comfort. "Is no longer the same…but…is the plague really doing this to us? Or is it…something else…?" her grip tightened. "Can a disease really create such tragedy…such fear…and such ultimate transformation, all at the same time?"

She began to weep mutely to herself, burying her face between her folded arms so that she did not have to see the outline of a wraithlike face staring back at her from the cell's little window.

"Momma…Thomas…I don't think the plague is the only thing stealing away our sanity…"


	2. Mannequin on Matheson

Don't know yet how many chapters this fanfic is going to be…but I hope it is not a failure. As for the review regarding Emma's age, I wanted to introduce that in this chapter. I like to bring in things separately and throughout the story, instead of naming everything about her all in one section. It avoids the whole "My name is Emma, I am years old and…" cliché, and I much prefer to do so.

Disclaimer: I own all of the characters so far in the story, but I do not own Silent Hill, which is Konami's work. Yay Konami!

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"Emma E. Tayton, age fifteen, Number 202."

The neat-sounding shuffle of papers reached her ears, along with the familiar voice of Dr. Gayton as she entered the tiny office. At first, when entering this little area, her eyes became overwhelmed with the overflowing of papers and odd objects scattered around the desks and tables randomly. Various drawers were open, she noted, one holding a single screwdriver, and the others holding sharp instruments such as needles and scalpels. She tore her gaze away nervously…medical equipment—anything having to do at all with the field made her uneasy. "Yes, that's me." Number 202. That's what they knew her by around here. She didn't even feel alive anymore…she was already in the morgue, with the number plastered onto some imaginary tag hanging from her wrist.

"Please, have a seat." As she did so stiffly, he looked over the brim of his glasses, which perched at the bridge of his nose in a professional-type manner—or, at least, that's what Emma thought it looked like, and examined her thoroughly. "How you been adapting, Emma?"

"Just fine."

"And the treatment?"

"Fine."

There was a long stretch of silence between the two. The doctor noticed her discomfort as she shifted in the dark leather chair in front of his main desk. "Look, Miss Emma," he sighed, leaning forward and crossing his arms to get a better view of her. "I know it's not the most relaxed place in the town. There has been a lot of stress around here lately. But, you see, Emma…you have a problem…a sickness called—"

"—Cholera."

He stuttered a bit, blinked, and continued on. "Y-yes, that's right. And we're doing all we can for you, but as you can see, it's not easy. Many of our patients have passed away before we could do anything about it. It's sweeping the population, and the cure is a complicated one to find."

"I'm just lonely. That's all." She murmured, gaze shifting down to the floor, pretending to take interest in the carpet pattern. She did not want to lock eyes with him for some reason. "There are others my age here, sometimes…but they usually aren't here for long."

"Well, your immune system is surprisingly tolerant," he replied with raised eyebrows. "I was even shocked myself to see the results. But, think of it this way, Emma—you haven't been sent to the Toluca Prison like many of the other patients. They were accused to be heretics of sorts, though, so don't let it weigh on your mind too much. We are not criminals, Emma. We do what's best for the hospital." He reached up to scratch his balding head. "Only the best."

"Only the best," she repeated with a mild, obedient nod. But silently, she wondered…what were the requirements to being a heretic? Those illusions, those stories that the cursed had screamed…could those relate to her every night dream? The prison sounded terrifying. _Maybe they really do need to be sent there_, she reassured herself mentally. _And maybe I can be helped…_

"Emma, look at me." This broke her concentration, and startled, the girl raised her chin and shyly studied his face. The structure itself was firm, but the expression he gave off was soft and comforting—something she truly needed right now. "Now," he sat back when he finally caught her attention, and picked up the pad of paper and the pen from the top of his desk. "The guards have reported to me…"

_Oh no…_

"…That they've been seeing…"

_Please, no…_

"…You moving in your sleep at night. Also, muttering things…though they couldn't tell me exactly what you were saying. You were too quiet for them to hear. May I ask what kind of dreams you've been having? Or is this a regular, nighttime pattern for you?"

Emma pondered quietly to herself. Did she want to tell this consoling doctor her problem? Would he nod, accept, and try to help her? Or would he smile, and then later deceive her into thinking he understood? Her mind was writhing in difficult decisions. If she told Dr. Gayton, there might still be hope. The sooner she was helped, the sooner her panic would dissolve. The prison so many others were sent to would vanish from her mind, and she would be relieved. "I remember one."

"Which one is that, Miss Emma?" he hurriedly touched the tip of his ballpoint pen to paper, glancing up at her every so often patiently.

Time could have stopped, and still, Emma wouldn't have noticed. She was too busy thinking back…it was not too long ago, though some things were blurry, and others clear as glass. "It was the dream I had last night. Doctor…"

"Yes, Emma?"

"If…if I do tell you this dream…you'll help me get rid of them, right? These nightmares I keep having?" That's what they were, she concluded. Nightmares. Although some of them weren't that bad…and yet, some of them were.

"Of course. That's what I'm here for. Now, go on," he nodded in persuasion, eyes fixed intensely. "Don't be afraid. No one else is here. Just you and me, that's all. Just you and me."

_Where had her shoes gone…?_

_Her naked toes scraped against the cold, weather-beaten ground. The harsh wind swept up her hair in a flurry of tangles, causing her to look lost and even perhaps a bit maniacal. Though oddly enough, no one was around to take in this scene. The town was eerily silent, abandoned completely—towering buildings accompanied her, making her feel small and worthless in comparison. Emma's eyes looked beyond hospital walls, and she soon realized that she was out on the streets, free and able to do whatever she pleased._

_But what, exactly, was there to do when there was no one around? She lifted a hand, running it across her naked arm meekly. It felt so real, and the fog, drifting and brushing against her, could not be mistaken for a dream's disguise. "Is this my own reality?" she heard herself mumble, voice seemingly far away, hardly heard at all by even herself._

_She made her way slowly down the wide path that the buildings on both sides created for her. Emma did not know where to go…what to do; who to look for, and who to run from. She knew for a fact, though, that she was not going back to that hospital. "I am no longer a caged animal…with my disease, I will stray far away from here."_

_But as long as she walked, as far as she walked, the paths and alleyways never seemed to end. There was no entrance, nor no exit in this endless town. It was just there, and her, trapped inside, wandering aimlessly for a purpose unknown. _

_The girl slowed her pace as an unusual light seeping through the thick fog caught her eye. She changed her course and slowly began to walk towards it, squinting her eyes to try to identify the source. Nothing seemed to be there from a distance, but when she got closer, she noticed the beam was coming from a flashlight, propped up neatly in the hand of a mannequin dressed in a pink flowered dress and bonnet. Its face was fixed in a smile, blank eyes staring directly forward. Shattered glass circled the figure, obviously stating that it had once been inside the open store located behind it. "I wonder why the flashlight is still on…" Emma whispered, inspecting what she had found closely. There was no one around, and the batteries would have died depending on how long ago it had been left on. She reached forward, running a soft finger down its plastic side. _

_Her fingers wrapped around the flashlight contemplatively. It would be useful when walking through the fog, and she might need it later. Yes. It wouldn't be considered stealing if no one were around, right? She tightened her grip on the item and pulled it from the mannequin's grasp, smiling in triumph that it wasn't glued down all the way. She turned to leave, but froze in the process as she heard a noise behind her—shifting, the crunching of glass. _

_Emma looked down to her own feet, and sighed in relief. It was her shoes walking upon the broken shards. "Stop being ridiculous, Emma," she scolded herself aloud. "You've got nothing to worry about…no one's even he—" The hard, fake feeling of fingers settled upon her shoulder gently. A startled, broken shriek jumped from her throat as she wretched forward after a couple moments of solid shock. Stumbling forward, she caught her balance just in time to force her legs to run, only taking a glimpse over her shoulder to look and see what had touched her. The mannequin was in the same place she had left it, and nothing else was around, though she did not take that as a relieving thought. What had…? _

_She still had the flashlight. Wonderful. "At least that wasn't for nothing," she breathed as she continued her sprint, knuckles white and holding onto the flashlight securely in front of her so she could watch where she was going. When she passed a random department store (she stole a glance and noticed all of the clothing was scattered across the floor, though did not take the time to go inside and explore), she skidded to a stop to catch her breath and look around. _

_Still, nothing was around. Unfortunately, all human life was gone as it had been before. The mannequin was nowhere to be found, though others stared soullessly from behind thick-layered display windows, much like the one she had found back there. She rolled the flashlight in her palm, starting off at a walk. _

"_I need to find something I can defend myself with," she realized suddenly. "Even though it doesn't look like there's much to defend against…" She also needed to find out what was going on. The atmosphere was starting to get to her. _

_Emma's feet directed her into a small hunting store on the corner of a street they called Matheson. There were many choices to choose from inside, though she hardly had the knowledge of any. Assortments of guns lined the walls, displayed along with the ammo needed. She never in her life had ever shot a gun before, and truthfully she was frightened to do so. There were knives, long and lethal, and others, small and petty looking. There was even a collection of different types of bows, and various lengths and sizes of arrows, too, though she'd be doomed if she chose this as a weapon of survival. Standing on her tiptoes, she snatched a small-sized revolver from its stand along with the small box of ammo provided. Her delicate fingers observed the weapon, slipping her index through and playing with the trigger, though of course she wasn't that inexperienced as to pull it. _

_In the store she also found a thick, leather belt with loops to hang her weapons and pouches to store her equipment in. She made sure it fit tightly around her waist before loading the remaining loops with a small knife in case something fragile needed cutting, and a longer one for more dangerous situations. A chuckle sounded under her breath as she secured the gun in place. All of this paranoia had sprung from that harmless mannequin with the flashlight. _

"_I'll make it out of here…no worries," she murmured hopefully, flicking the tip of her longer hunting knife in reassurance. Emma whipped around towards the open door, ready to make her way out, but was immobilized immediately by the sight in front of her, taken in after an uncontrollable scream._


	3. Adam Aceldama

I know, it's been a long time…but school's been catching up to me, and my fiction story has been scolding me for neglecting it for so long. So here we are! Mortality, chapter 3. I wonder if I'll ever end up finishing this story…xx I have 165 radicals to do after this, whoopee. I think I'll take my time. Review, please!

Disclaimer: Characters in the story belong to me, but Silent Hill does not. Don't sue me for my rats.

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"And that's when you woke up?" 

"Yes. That's when my eyes opened, and I looked frantically around, lost. I saw her in my dream. I saw Grace." Emma could clearly see that she had captivated the doctor's interest. Both eyes were on her, and his pen no longer created the same scratching tune. She tried to search his eyes.

"What did she look like? Do you remember?" he whispered eagerly, leaning forward in his seat.

"She resembled her own, past self…on her last few days with us. Sickly. Quiet, sheltered. Her skin was dried up like mine is now…absolutely horrible, and her eyes were shadowed, dull…they didn't know what life was. Her hair, though…her hair was bright and pretty, like how it used to be before the disease struck us." Emma grew almost silent, hesitant. "She looked as though, truly, she knew nothing but suffering."

Mr. Gayton, across the desk, sat up and let out a brisk, awkward cough to break the chain of silence between them. "Well, that's why you're here, Emma. So we can help."

X**0**X

"Someone here to see you."

Emma opened her sleepy eyes to the rough, grunting statement of a tall, dark guard who had just opened her cell door. She blinked her surroundings into focus and sat up to rub her face tiredly. "Ugh…" Her attempt at getting some well-needed sleep that the horrible dream had stolen from her obviously had failed miserably. Was it morning? No…it couldn't be morning. The doctor had called her in this morning, and so was it night? "Sir," she stretched her arms, knees cracking as she stiffly got to her feet. "May I ask you of the time?"

"Two O'clock," he told her shortly, turning to wait outside the cell. Two…so it was the middle of the afternoon already. She'd slept that long…three hours, and without a single dream! The evil illusions had escaped her mind for that short, glorious time. Could that visit with the doctor really have helped? Could she possibly be over—

"Come on, hurry it up!"

She straightened her hospital clothes, as if she were going to a most elegant ball, and stepped from the room with a nod to the guard. He escorted her down the hall, past several other cells. She peered inside as she followed him from behind, into the worlds of dozens of different people—all holders, supposedly, of insanity. Crazy by birth, crazy by choice, crazy by disease…it didn't matter. They were all ranked the same.

She was led to a small, dark area in the back. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it to be some kind of church confession room. It was odd, really, for the hospital did not let the patients see the person on the other side. The room was cramped, with a little bench for sitting, and in front a wall of glass atop a counter almost half as tall as she was. When she sat down, she noticed the glass was secured atop the counter right across from her face. This way, she was not looking up when someone spoke, and she was not looking down. The glass was thick for the most part, and had a small hole right in the middle. Behind the glass a black curtain hung. The guard disappeared from sight, and the door closed shut after his leave.

"Emma."

The young girl jumped, startled in her seat. She jerked her head towards the glass cautiously, her fingers gripping the edges of the bench she sat on.

"Emma Tayton…202, is that what they call you?" The voice was low and shaky, an old man speaking, she assumed. She shivered at the sound.

"Yes, 202. That's what they call me…Sir," she added warily, not quite sure whether she should call this person on the other side a male so soon. Maybe it wasn't…perhaps it was just a woman with a deep tone. You could never be too sure. "That's right."

"Ah, how is that disease coming along, my dear? Quite fine, I'm guessing, seeing as how you're not dead yet?" The voice did not wait for a reply. "Yes, yes, well…good for you. The grave will hopefully rot before you enter it so willingly. Sickness is a dreary thing, indeed!"

Emma found it hard to be polite during those first few moments. This voice was confusing her. It certainly wasn't her mother, or Thomas for that matter, and she knew of no elders who would take the time to come visit her. She was on the verge of dying from this disease, and…and this voice was making a joke out of it? She wasn't quite sure there was a point to this visit, though she was presuming too soon, she realized. A few more minutes, she assured herself, and it will be all over. "Dreary, yes, Sir…miserable to the point of crying. Unexcited as you may imagine, but also too exciting for words…never knowing when you're going to fall over and never get back up. Never knowing when you might fall asleep, and not make it to see the next sunrise. Sir, life on the edge is much more thrilling than you may think."

"But of course," the voice responded patiently. "What makes people do the things they do? Take risks, hang off the side of cliffs? Dig into people with scalpels, pick apart the brain, and expect them to exit that hospital room alive the next day? Aha, my dear, you are a clever one." Was this person toying with her mind? "So tell me, are you taking a risk?"

She paused, stared at the black curtain. If she gaped at it long enough, perhaps she would be able to see beyond the fabric. Three, four, five minutes…and then her mind grew questioning. "…Who _are_ you?"

"I am that of which you do not see, nor notice, nor ever think about, unless given the chance. I am the one always tweaking, always watching, and do not forget that I am always there. A name, a name…if a name is what you want out of me, then I shall grant your wish. Adam. Adam Aceldama."

"Adam Aceldama," she repeated under her breath. Aceldama. Adam. Biblical names? Were they…? It had been so long since she had read the Word…the stories were beginning to fade away. Her faith was slowly dissolving. She thought for a moment about this man, but there was no such thing as angels. "What are you here for?"

"I am here to tell you that you live in a middle world. A world existing between the storm, and the aftermath. You have a key others do not—a key to the barrier. A key to the core. A key to someplace new and familiar all at the same time…"

The door to the black room opened once more. "Time's up." The guard stepped inside and nodded to Emma, his eyes following her movements as she slowly lifted from the safety of her bench. She gazed intently into the black curtain, this black curtain she couldn't quite comprehend, couldn't really follow, but had to listen to it anyways. The guard started to lead her out.

"…Silent Hill has given you this little treasure…do _not_ lose it, no matter how many times people try to beat and butter it out of you. It is torture, Emma, it is agony…but it is also a vital piece to everything the town has ever existed for."


	4. Interviewing Illusion

Happy 666 Day!  
It has been quite a while, no? Although this is a short chapter, it is necessary, or at least to me. There will be a future chapter (most likely the very next one) that will be done on seeing as how it is too graphic to put it on here. I don't think it will be a required chapter for the story, but it does help explainthe psychological process that Emma is going through. You may or may not read it. It is your choice. Anyways, since Summer break is almost here, I'm confident that I'll be able to finish this fanfiction. Until then, enjoy the chapters while they come!

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"Adam Aceldama." She stared intently down at her shriveled fingers as she whispered this, the words, every single individual letter, scanning the surface of her mind with thought. Adam Aceldama. A savior or a demon, Emma could not figure out. He was unseen. He was an essence, a voice, something that was not completely solid. All in all, Emma saw him as a riddle waiting to be broken.

What else could he have been? He spoke in puzzles, she knew that much. Never did he state bluntly a clear, logical fact throughout that whole conversation in the little room. Like a frustrated parrot, she was just about ready to pluck every single feather out of her body because of this tugging feeling that never seemed to cease beyond the bone of her chest. Something was not right. There was something behind all of this. Something she was not getting.

"_I am here to tell you that you live in a middle world. A world existing between the storm, and the aftermath. You have a key others do not—a key to the barrier. A key to the core. A key to someplace new and familiar all at the same time…"_

…Was he speaking of her dreams? Were these illusions of hers a 'middle world'? If so, where was it located? Who lived within it? It was an exact identical to the very town she lived in. The very town she had lived in her whole entire life. Was this the world that was new and familiar, all at the same time? Emma moaned quietly under her breath, resting the back of her head against the cold, hard wall. A terrible headache pounded through her. It caused an earthquake in her head and a tornado in her chest. She simply could not understand.

"Who is this Adam Aceldama?" she almost growled in frustration, her eyes burning into the metal door opposite of her. A random guard was peeking through, his eyes holding a stupid daze, but she looked past him, past him into another realm of thought. She began to sob.

_X**0**X_

"How are you feeling today, Emma? Not too terribly sick, I should hope?"

"I _do_ feel sick. I feel sick every moment of my life because I _am_ sick."

"Oh, now, now…don't have a sour tone with me, dear. I'm your friend. Merely a concerned friend, that's all."

Emma stared blankly towards the black curtain, stared through the hole in the middle of the glass and imagined she was on one of those boats—the enormous kind of boats that wealthy people own and drink their champagne on. Cruise ships, she corrected herself. Not boats. She felt like she was inside one, rocking back and forth, consumed in the imprisonment of it, knowing that if she stood and opened the door and took a step outside, she would tip over into the roaring ocean and never come out. The voice was all around her. The voice swallowed her, ate up her attention like fueled energy. She was almost angry that this sheer voice had total control. "You've never even met me."

"You'd be surprised," came the cool reply. This sent a shiver down her spine. "I see many things, Miss Emma. I could go as far as to say that I see everything in the world, and nothing at all. I see not only with my eyes, but also with other sources available to me. I understand tragedy, happiness, fear. I understand disease."

A stinging hate flared up inside her, scorched her throat and caused her eyes to narrow. She was on the edge of her seat, ready to create a brown hole in the curtain with her blazing eyes. "You can't possibly understand what disease truly is," she whispered harshly, "Until you've caught it. Until you've bonded with it, danced with it, talked with it. Until you know you are going to live with it for the rest of your life, and then finally die with it." She wondered if he had only said this to flick a sensitive nerve inside her. It had worked.

A chuckle. One that most likely said, 'What a child, what a child. Unknowing, typical. Naturally, what a child.' Condescending, that's how it sounded. That's all he had to do, chuckle, and she got the message. But he chose to speak aloud anyways. "You don't believe me, dearest. But it is true. Although I am not a papered scientist, I am very much aware. I know what goes on inside and out."

"Why don't you show your face?" she murmured desperately, wanting to break the glass separating her from her observer. She wanted to see him. She wanted to know that he was solid, that he was whole and a real human being behind that dreadful curtain. "Please? Just to me? I won't tell anyone else, I swear by it." Her mother always taught her not to swear, but she'd overlook that, just this once.

"Not just yet," the voice rejected. "Not right now. Not here."

"But there will never be a chance elsewhere!" she cried, shocked by the bitter tone of her voice. "I'll be stuck in this hospital for the rest of my life. They can't fool me. Where's the cure? If they'd made one, I would be out of here already." This man should have known that. If he claimed to know everything, he should have at least known _that_.

"There will be a chance." Silence. The air around her was still. She thought she misheard at first. "It is possible that you can escape from the walls of this sickly home, and live once more. I never lie, dearest. I never lie." This promise…it was suspicious, and therefore she had to tackle it with firm caution, she reminded herself. Although a wave of hope and excitement overtook her, she did not let it overwhelm her. There must have been a catch. There had to be.

"What to I need to do?" she asked slowly, legs squeezing tightly together in anticipation.

"To leave this place and never come back?"

"Yes. To leave and to never come back."

"Use what the town gave you. Try to break that barrier, the transparent wall between worlds that only you can enter and exit. Dream, Emma. Dream, and the other universe will release you."

Dream.

Is that all she needed to do?

It seemed all too simple.

She knew, without a doubt,nothing was ever _that _undemanding.


End file.
